


Liquid Fire

by EVOLustory



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bikers, M/M, Slash, Stalker Kuroro, protective Killugon, sassy Kurapika, the whole shebang, typical Hisoka
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-21 22:06:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 5,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7406899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EVOLustory/pseuds/EVOLustory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Catch me, catch me, if you can.” </p>
<p>A Biker Gang AU where Kuroro stalks a blond boy with pretty brown eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Basically a self indulgent fic where I get to dress the boys up in leather and sit them on bikes. Also posted on FFN, but the format is better here, trust me.
> 
> I even drew a cover, omg
> 
> Now with FST: http://8tracks.com/evolustory/liquid-fire

* * *

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  **1\. Marbles**

_Golden honey_ , refractive hues encased in marble kaleidoscopes that tease the world behind curtains of blond lashes.

 

_Catch me, catch me, if you can._

 

Tonight too, a cool autumn evening where breaths take shape in the air, they are guarded by his gang of three. There is no threat in a number so small; no extra threat in the black leather on their shoulders or the loud hum of engines. Not when he has a gang of twelve at his call.

Yet tonight too, he watches, alone on his dark, dark bike, hair dripping the aftermath of an earlier rainfall. Wait, even when he finally manages to catch those honey marbles for a second longer than usual, he waits quietly on the worn leather seat.

 

Not yet; not tonight.


	2. Chapter 2

**2\. Weird Things**

Two kids joined at the hip, one older kid, and a man who seems too old to belong. Not the strangest group around, but definitely somewhere from the weirder side of the spectrum. The two young ones share a silver bike while the other two ride their own: red and black.

That was them, joy-riding into a part of town that most know is Spider turf.

And that was how he found him, the blond boy on the ruby red bike, wearing a jacket larger than himself.

“Oi, whatcha doing around our turf, kids? Got lost on your way home?” It was Uvogin who approached them first, with one hand around his helmet and the other around a beer.

Nobunaga whistled where he stayed seated with the rest of the Spider, “ _Look_ at those bikes. Did Daddy buy them?”

They stalled, the silver-haired kid frowned with a calculating glare and the blond one blinked with a poise of complete nonchalance. Like a barren tree against autumn winds, having no leaves left to be stirred, it stands unwavering amidst externalities.

“Is there a problem with us using a public road that connects this specific part of town to the next?”

While the man with them looked possibly scandalized with the blond’s bold retort, the two kids looked on with mild amusement and youthful curiosity.

A snort and the choked off end of a booming laugh from the front and hushed murmurs from behind.  “Oi, Kuroro, you hear that? This kid's a fucking riot.”

“You know about the Spider?”

“I know of them.”

“And you think it's wise to come to our front steps looking and sounding so hostile?”

“I know of them, but I don't particularly care for them.” An inkling of a grin pulled at the corner of the Spider head’s lips. “Besides, _he_ came to us personifying hostility. I wouldn't expect anyone to greet that with sugar.”

 

_A riot._

 

“I see. Then I apologize on Uvo’s behalf. Please continue on.”


	3. Chapter 3

**3\. Shadows and Echoes**

Since the first meeting, the gang of four would appear around the roads that the Spider frequented. Like an echo, a wisp of gold would round a corner when he turns his head around. Or the idiosyncratic patter of excited footsteps behind short heads of silver and black—the reflective glint off the tall one’s shades. Such instances occurred enough times for Kuroro to have begun collecting moments in a mental diary.

 

The reprimanding shouts of “ _Not here_ ” and “ _They can see us_ ” following the shadow of red and silver paint-jobs: Wednesday afternoon.

A flash of gold hidden between trails of dust and exhaust: Wednesday midnight.

The familiar ruby red bike parked outside a convenience store: Friday.

A silver-haired kid and a spiky-haired kid on the phone with a _“Kurapika”_ : Sunday.

The oldest looking man’s arm hung around the blond’s shoulders: Monday.

A pair of warm brown eyes meeting his over a stack of books in the library: Wednesday again.


	4. Chapter 4

**4\. This and That**

This is not the same as that.

The fourth limb does _that_ well; but this is not that. This is an adoration of, an attraction to, a very commonly (and openly) admired part of the human anatomy—aesthetically. In art, and culture, the eyes are thought of as the most expressive element to the outer countenance. A window that allows us a peek of what lies inside.

And anyway, it’s not like he obsesses singly with those honey-glazed eyes. No, he appreciates the whole being—the dense lash line, the peachy fair skin, the golden tresses, the (probably) toned limbs swallowed by oversized zip-ups and leather jackets, the fingers peeking out of low-hanging cuffs and the red jewel dangling from his ear and the _lips_ —

 

Point: This is not borderline deviant behaviour.


	5. Chapter 5

**5. Wednesday, October 17th, approximately 4:35PM.**

I saw him at the convenience store again. He was by himself, came out with only a bottle of water. Figured there was no better time, having already made distinguished eye contact with him at the library and finally finding him alone when _I_ was alone. I went up and formally introduced myself to him; he was as guarded as I thought. He doesn’t know this, but in being so, he actually makes the experience that much more worthwhile.

His name is Kurapika.

He’s interesting—refreshing, not only visually, but characteristically also. A cute little curiosity that fleetingly fights for my attention; there, but only when I want it to be there. I’ve been more obsessive about weirder things so—


	6. Chapter 6

**6\. Wednesday**

He parks his bike (sleek, slick, _black_ : blackout throughout each inch of matte frame, and glossy midnight paint striking through the absolute darkness like the mercy of moonlight) in front of the boy’s bike (compact, rounded, and astoundingly bold: a shadow-like frame all along, acting as a backdrop for the glaring red rims adorned likes fearsome eyes) when he notices the same silhouette pacing before a cooler of drinks. He dismounts, making toward the automatic doors without much of an introspective thought as to why, halts, and then reconsiders. He watches the figure queue in front of the cashier and decides to wait, leaning against the glass pane beside the doors.

He comes, through the whirring sound of automated doors. One step out, and his gaze aligns with the Spider head’s Black Widow, and like an involuntary twitch, his head snaps toward Kuroro.

“That’s a nice bike,” Kuroro juts his chin at the boy’s bike. “Very recognizable. Daringly bold, even.”

The boy cocks an eyebrow, “Doesn’t look like your kind of colour.”

“No, not personally, but it quite suites you,” he smiles, baring pearl-white teeth. “I can appreciate that.”

Unabashed scrutiny, wide brown eyes counting and measuring each breath of word—learning each and every nuance, every quirk and flick of dark abyssal gaze.

“Did you buy it yourself?” Kuroro veers the boy’s focus back onto conversation.

A shrug, “Took the bike off the hands of someone who wanted to get rid of it. I did a bit of refurbishing afterwards.”

“The rims?”

“Did those.”

“Beautiful addition.”

Again, wide-eyed dissection of every expertly placed transition, every praise sliding off that practiced tongue.

A chuckle, “Kuroro Lucifer. I didn’t get to introduce myself last time, and I want to leave a good impression with a neighbouring gang.”

The boy considers the hand outstretched, trailing his observant eyes up that strong arm to find that perfectly amicable smile and down again. “Kurapika.” He lets the outstretched hand stay singularly outstretched.

Unfazed, Kuroro retracts his hand. “No last name?”

Kurapika hums, stepping around Kuroro while twisting the cap off his water. He stops in front of the Spider head, pulling his head back for one large swig.

“Maybe when I actually care for an impression,” Kurapika tosses a sparing last glance over his retreating shoulder, “ _Kuroro._ ”


	7. Chapter 7

**7\. Double Trouble**

“Those kids,”

The pair of them, dipping in and out, and up and behind, of alleys, of dumpsters, of every day in the week, together—a package deal of the annoying variation. Persistent like stains of ink that won’t lift off.

Always after three. Mostly before six. Then again, after seven.

Never seen with their bike within vicinity, intentionally concealing their location, they still manage to find and keep up with the Spider.

Three to six: a faint feeling of being watched.

Seven to twelve: the rumbling of far-off engines and fading voices.

Four thirteen:

“getting aggressive, aren’t they?”

 

 

Standing across the street, bike against their back, looking, waiting, beckoning.

The shrewd one blinks, challenging a reaction with a thin frown upon his mouth. The simple one glares, hot brown eyes and quiet fight.

“I think they’re quite cute, actually.”

Two displeased glares directed at Four.

“I wouldn’t say cute, but they’re somethin’ alright.”

They pass him, ignoring the wave Four sends their way. Each set of footsteps adds another limb to their backs, circling them in, the deeper they venture. In front of the head, sat with his arms sprawled over the handles of his bike, they stop.

And stare. At the head, between them, at the head again.

The head blinks.

“We just wanted to say that we will be settling here awhile.”

The simple one states, not too friendly a tone.

“Oh? I didn’t know ‘just saying’ involved one week of tailing.”

The head returns the glare with a blank stare.

“Nah, that was us scoping out the competition.”

The shrewd one shrugs.

“And your evaluation?”

He tips his silver head.

“Can’t say. You’re kinda weird.”

_Whimsical, not weird._

“And you’re kind of young.”

And those cool blue eyes reflect a mind of trained skepticism, reworked and refined to appraise behind hooded guises of childish intentions. A glint of mischief, perhaps. Or maybe just obligated bravado, with that pointed smile.

“And does being young stop anybody?”

_Indeed._

“When it counts, I’d say, most.”

The glaring one asks, with a self-assured demeanour that has Four reverberating.

“What about you?”

_Oh._

“Hmm.”

Silver-hair elbows his friend.

“ _We_ —will be around awhile.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The pov is always Kuroro, but the narrator is diff between chapters if yall didn't figure already. Anyway I love Hisoka.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love how Leorio is tagged, but has yet to make a scene

**8\. I Can’t Help Wondering**

Whimsical, not weird. _Whimsical_.

And being young, what of it? Where does it stop being a factor of consideration? Is youth a relative measure? Yes, it is. To? To oneself, to groups, to mortality, to knowledge and wisdom. Now, really, _what of it?_ In the context of gangs, or more realistically here, non-criminal gangs of school boys and company—a group of _actual_ delinquents would be of greater concern. To maintain a social image? Whatever the case, there is no threat, and seems to be more of a passing phase of adolescence. Then when does it matter? He would not mind a young member, if all other criteria are satisfied. In child labour? Well, circumstances differ. Voluntary labour, admirable. The other, understandably scorned. Prodigal talents of young, uncommon, but not rare. Child criminals, also not so rare. Child murderers, circumstances again. And yes, _Yes, that,_ he darts a passing glance at Hisoka, shuffling cards between his hands. _Hisoka definitely would. Personally, I find it quite distasteful._

Pink hair disappears behind a pale face as Hisoka turns to catch his lingering gaze. Cards lost from masterful maneuvers, lay strewn across the pebbled dirt of the forgotten construction site. Hisoka’s hands wander toward his chin, holding it up as a deliberate smile spreads before him. Those sharp talons tap, tap, tapping away at his thinning lips.

“Was that really alright?”

He inclines his head for Hisoka to elaborate.

“Letting those two leave just like that.”

He hums, noticing the stares of the other members as they tune into their conversation.

“Do you feel threatened by two middle school boys, Hisoka?”

A flash of red tongue swiping along the bottom lip. “They do have a threatening charm about them, if you get me. Makes me want to do bad things to them.”

Phinks makes a disgruntled noise to his right, and Feitan scorns in effect.

“Keep your pedophilic comments to yourself, Hisoka,” Nobunaga cautions, “I gotta say those kids got guts though. Could make fine members.”

“Now, what kind of bad things are you implying I want to do?” Hisoka’s smirk becomes feral.

“No, they’re too much trouble.” Machi bypasses Hisoka’s retort, ceasing that branch of discussion.

“They’re interesting, but I wouldn’t go as far as to recruit them, no.”

“But was it really ok to let them go?” Pakunoda questions, “What if they were to follow us on a mission.”

“What the Spider does is no secret. Let them. If they decide to meddle, we’ll deal with them then.”

A snake wrapping its tail around prey, unrelenting and with a hiss that cuts beneath fur and hide. The golden eyes unblinking, waiting for a chance to sink its fangs into the first bite.

“Now, I can’t help but wonder that perhaps this might be personal.”

Fangs.

“Is there something you’re trying to say, Hisoka?”

Flickering red forked tongue.

“No, I mean what I say; and I’ve said what I mean.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The making of this chp nearly killed my computer because I spilled tea and it's still on my floor

**9\. We Who Bore**

It happens like a replay of last week. Tailing as per schedule, method as per usual, hostile as per intention. A replay of exact events when he is with the gang. What differs (and is differing quite frequently, mind) is when he is not with the gang.

When he is sitting by the window of a half dilapidated café with the only other patron at his elbow, peering over at his copy of _Linguistic Development in the Isolated Post-Pubescent,_ iron-curled locks falling over his fingertips, where they lie against the page.

Blinking their watchful eyes.

When he is wading between the clusters of loud party-goers and late night wanderers in the central downtown nightlife, trying to stall until the night stretches past midnight.

 Frowning, knowing full well why.

When he receives the inconvenient company of another meagre gang the Spider may have done ill upon in the past, trapped within the cigarette shop where he stopped to grab a drink. He had sensed them enclosing, seen the first man in denim breaking out of traffic and circling back to the shop once he recognized the Black Widow. In the moment between him stepping up to the cashier and him slipping the change back into his wallet, the man’s entourage had already arrived to hide themselves within the throngs of moving pedestrians. While the cashier busies himself with the next customer, he slips into the corridor labeled ‘Staff Only’ and gets creative with the alarm system and fire extinguisher he finds attached to the wall.

Gaping at the chaos, they miss him fleeing the scene.

When it is Wednesday. When he is reclining into a couch, a weathered excavation journal in his hands and a Jatutr dictionary turned down in his lap.

Strolling in, settling down, a table on the wall opposite him.

He thumbs the bottom corner of the page. _Dental structure with protruding canines much like wolves, lions, predators, but otherwise hominin._ The thin yellow paper crinkling between his fingers as he flips the page. _Only one sample was excavated; insufficient evidence to conclude a new hominin species was discovered._

Propping a hardcover up, they sneak glances between whispers and pages.

Worn page after worn page, he faithfully ignores them. One of them seems to grind his teeth and seethe something to the other. He wonders if maybe this has become more like a stubborn game of endurance than a posturing contest between two gangs in such close proximity. Though he knows as well as they, that this is not about territory. So he pays no attention to the eyes screaming for a confrontation, continues not to, until the sudden frantic flutter of backpacks, arms, large picture books and tall hardcovers proves too great a temptation.

Kicking backpacks under chairs; diving noses into thread bound seams.

He knows why, when notices the figure meandering down the centre aisle, head turned toward the placards labelling each shelving unit. And he watches as the figure turns, brows knit and confusion clear, to inspect the tufts of black spikes and white curls growing out of _Following Instructions for Dummies_ and _Human Anatomy: Reproductive Systems_ respectively, like a canine picking up a scent it is much too familiar with. He sees the boy reach for the tufts before the boy himself blocks the view of the two with his back.

_“…Homework…” “…Gon’s idea…” “…Nothing happened…”_

He manages to avert his gaze just before three pairs of eyes focus onto his lounged form. _Dental structure with protruding canines much like wolves, lions, predators, but otherwise hominin._ He has read this. _Only one sample was excavated; insufficient evidence to conclude a new hominin species was discovered._

Scuffing heels on thinned carpet come to a halt before him. “Hi.”

He looks up. It was the dark haired one, blinking his unrepentant eyes, but wearing a chastised crease between his brows. The other one stands a step offside, wearing no appearance of chided bashfulness. “Hello.”

“My name is Gon. I’m sorry we kept following you. Let’s get along.”

 _Gon._ He fights the smile wanting to curl around his lips. Keeping his expression blank, he turns to address the unnamed boy slouching casually. The boy meets his eyes, shrugs a shoulder, and sighs.

“I’m Killua. Sorry about being annoying, I guess.”

 _Impertinent_ , but he nods. “Apology accepted. I’m Kuroro.”

Hoisting bags after them, they head for the door, mumbling, “See ya.”

Before he could dip his head between pages and resume the appearance of focused reading, the third member strides over to take Gon and Killua’s place. This time, he could not kill the smile budding at the edges of his lips soon enough to bother.

“If they have done anything offensive, I apologize. They bore easily.”

The smile spreads from their modest corners. “I figured as much. Don’t worry, they were more amusing than threatening.” In fact, “Some of my members are quite fond of their antics.”

Frowning, the boy says, “Keep the clown away from them.”

 _Hisoka._ The man is too curious and meddlesome, he’d have to remind the fool. However, he knows he cannot get between Hisoka and his subjects of interests without consequence. “I can only let him know.”

Not the answer he was hoping for, seeing as the frown on the boy’s face darkens. He shifts to pick up his journal, catching the boy’s gaze slide between the journal to the dictionary on his lap, frown easing into inquisitive nature. “It’s an excavation journal detailing the findings from the old North Rihgur. Do you believe in human hybrids?”

“No, but if there is evidence otherwise, it’s not a matter of whether I believe it or not.”

“Oh, this holds no evidence towards hybrids,” he taps his finger against the cover. “It speculates a possible new hominin species. I just thought it’d be more interesting if it were about hybrids.”

Reading about something absurd, “It would be.”

He runs a finger along the width of the pages. “I’ll be done in an hour; I can lend it to you then, if you’re interested.” The boy’s amber-brown eyes (that the library’s fluorescent lights do no justice) startle alert, darting between the journal, the dictionary, and him.

Cautiously, “I’ll be around for an hour.”

Gladly, “Then I’ll find you in an hour, Kurapika.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry Leorio.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> LOL. So like the following update chain took this long cuz I didn't wanna write 12. for the longest time.

**10\. Business as Usual**

“Kuroro, my group is ready.”

“We’re ready too.”

“How about your group, Feitan?”

“Just about. Waiting on Phinks to get back to me.”

“Franklin?”

“We’re set, too.”

“Good. Standby until Sunday.”


	11. Chapter 11

**11\. Missing**

Days go by strikingly monotonous. Which is not a bad thing, but he thinks he might miss the young duo.

Well.

Maybe not the duo, per se, but _something_. 

 


	12. Chapter 12

**12\. Something**

Sunday comes, with all-but-one of the limbs huddled around him at their usual hangout. The sky has yet to be dusted with the star’s twinkle, so they wait.

The limbs mingle, arguing, arm-wrestling, and they don’t spare the final limb a glance when he struts in with his heels clicking and shoulders rolling back. But Kuroro sees it, and is even given a wink in return.

He lowers the book between his knees. “We’re on schedule. Get ready to leave in ten minutes.”

A chorus of acknowledging hums answer him.

Four lingers by the front, peering idly down at the cards between his fingers. He watches the limb arrange the cards around, humming a children’s rhyme. Just as he seems to be satisfied with his hand, a silver bike eases to a halt two feet from where he stands.

And where there is a silver bike, there follows a black and a red bike.

And when he catches sight of those red rims, that is what his gaze latches onto: the red accelerating, slipping through that two-feet gap between Four and the silver bike, swiping the cards proffered to the two young boys (one of whom already has a hand outreached).

And while the rider turns to hurl the crumpled hand back at Four, Kuroro captures a blink of his attention before he is pulling the rest of his misfit gang away with him.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of update catch-up/streak. So yeah, enjoy while I continue to study for my midterm. :)

**13\. Hide**

The heist was a success; enough to finance the rest of their group activities for the year to come.

Which is why he is slouched over the handles of his bike, waiting for the woman in the food truck to assemble his dinner and brew his coffee instead of lounging at his preferred café closer to the Spider’s base.

Meaning it is a pleasant surprise, when he averts his gaze from his rain sodden fringe, to find a pair of glassy eyes watching him curiously on Monday night.  

 

 _Golden honey_ , refractive hues encased in marble kaleidoscopes that tease the world behind curtains of blond lashes.

_Catch me, catch me, if you can._

Tonight too, a cool autumn evening where breaths take shape in the air, they are guarded by his gang of three. There is no threat in a number so small; no extra threat in the black leather on their shoulders or the loud hum of engines. Not when he has a gang of twelve at his call.

Yet tonight too, he watches, alone on his dark, dark bike, hair dripping the aftermath of an earlier rainfall. Wait, even when he finally manages to catch those honey marbles for a second longer than usual, he waits quietly on the worn leather seat.

_Not yet; not tonight._

He smiles, waving the steaming coffee he finally receives in the air.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo, hxh back at it again so I gotta pull my weight around here too
> 
> time to get caught up to the manga again

**14. & Seek**

Anyone who has some stakes in this large city of Yorknew knows that the eastern downtown is Spider turf. The locals, the authorities, the organized crime circles, and the ones the Spider prey on. Yorknew east side is where anyone would search first to locate one of the members or try to find their “home base.” And of course, no such home base exists; the many locations where they frequent for casual meanders are simple that – casual touch points. After a mission, the gang disperses to keep a low profile wherever they please. Every public stint (rowdy contests, internal disputes, group gatherings) is a PR ploy to attach the Spider to eastern Yorknew, far from the Spider’s real origin.

So maybe it is a curiosity fueled by egoistic pride that brings him scouting the usual empty plot the Spider hangs out in from the vantage point of an apartment rooftop. He squats between the linen sheets, waiting for his strategically scattered pursuers to realize that their ambush has failed. But before the hired hands could come to the conclusion, a roar of black and dust peels off the main street to zip through the alley filled with concealed mercenaries. The rider slows just as he reaches the edge of the property line of the Spider’s hangout, and without a beat, his pursuers scramble out of their hiding to ambush the rider who definitely isn’t a limb.

“Leorio, don’t stop!” 

“Keep going, old man!”  

A second and third roar of engine, red, dust, and silver swerve into the alley street, passing the black biker in a sudden burst and shouting for him to follow. But it’s too late; the pursuers have converged onto the trio like _finally, about damn time these shits showed up._


	15. Chapter 15

**15\. Tag**

Now, a lesser man would turn tail and feign ignorance if he were to chance upon a scene like such. Yorknew is bustling with gangs and people from the underworld, if one wants to live life peacefully here, there are some unspoken rules one must follow. However, Kuroro is no lesser man. Nor is he a greater man, in fact. He is simply _just_ a man with a less common philosophy and a unique set of priorities.

So, no he doesn’t bail. He also doesn’t expend any effort to help in any form other than bat his eyes at an interesting turn of events. But don’t think too lowly of him; he can’t afford to disclose his Spider’s whereabouts just yet. His duties as the head is foremost on that list of skewed priorities.

He rocks onto the balls of his feet to lean slightly over the railing, still hiding between the flapping linen.

He can see: the grunts (eight of them) closing off the one-way street, trapping the four misfits in a circle of thick burly men more bluff than stuff (Kuroro is a bit offended they thought these fools would be enough to track them).

And he hears: _“Leorio, thank you for walking us into an obviously laid out trap.” “Didn’t I always say that we shouldn’t let the old man lead?” “_ What _part of that was obvious? Not all of us have super human senses or a stick up his ass here!” “Guys, stop fighting!”_

An interesting conversation that the pursuers don’t seem to appreciate, as they bark for the gang to dismount and state their positions.

_“Position? What positions are they talking about, Killua?” “The Spider obviously.” “These goons have no idea what they’re doing.” “Do we even look remotely savage and uncivilized to you, huh?” “Shut up! Only the Spider uses this road, everyone knows!” “Yeah, and you’re also here, so.” “Answer the damn question, brat!” “We’re not part of the Spider.”_

Someone down there decides that this line of questioning is not getting results and shouts something about the tall lanky one stopping his bike right in front of the Spider hangout meaning association. And thus, beat or capture or both of the above.

This is unfortunate. He cannot do anything if the situation were to turn violent. Yet, he would prefer it if the boy remained somewhat intact, as Kuroro’s exclusive edition journal still lies in his possession (also, he’s interesting). And only then does Kuroro realize,

_Ah, that must be why._

He settles to watch from his position with a parting sigh to his journal. The eight men rush at every angle, crowding the gang in the centre with nowhere to move. From his top-down vantage, he sees quite clearly how the next few minutes play out.

Silver-hair— _Killua_ —uses his slight height to attack from the bottom. As the attacker leans forward to grab him, he pivots, rounding on the man and kicking his knees in, and then spinning to sweep another attacker off his feet before the previous man even hits the ground. The two land in a heap by his feet, and the boy does well to kick the two unconscious without a second’s delay. A third man charges forward. _“Who the fuck are you!” “Just a kid whose whole family consists of MMA fighters.” “Fuck you—”_ He joins the heap of unconscious bodies.

Kurapika weaves around his two pursuers with intent; lining his attackers up in a way so that when one tries to throw a punch, he dodges the fist with a flick of his wrist, uses the momentum of the other’s fall to knee the man’s face, fisting his hand in the man’s hair once he’s broken his nose to knock him into his second purser’s face. Kurapika leaves them both bleeding on the ground, cradling broken noses and lost teeth. One of them has the courage to mockingly ask, _“You from a family of MMA fighters too?” “No, but my family has run a dojo for generations and I’ve fought children_ _stronger than you.”_

Where the other two are elegant and efficient, Gon is fascinating in another way: one punch in the torso each sends his attackers toppling over in soundless pain. Seeing as his attackers are unable to speak, he takes it upon himself to divulge, _“My dad’s a hunter. We used to fight bears for fun.”_

The tall lanky one—must be Leorio—meets the expectant gaze of the last man standing (quite a few cautious steps away). He closes the distance with long strides and a fist pulled back. _“My family’s normal, damn it!”_ But instead of striking with his fist, he grabs the arms the other man raised in defence to lock him into place as he stomps one foot onto the man’s right foot and kicks at his right ankle in a way that would for sure leave it sprained. Again, for the left ankle, before finishing with dislocating the two shoulders.

 _“Well,”_ Killua drawls above the bodies he’s stepping over, _“you wanna just leave it and go?”_ Kurapika turns his gaze upwards and scans the buildings surrounding the little scene of crime. _“No, that would be disrespectful to the book.” “Then let’s bounce. We’re wasting time!”_

They hop back onto their bikes, kicking off, and heading into the main street again. He is left to watch the waste of human bodies (still alive, and likely to bring trouble when they wake) and ponder the next best course of action. Kill: No – and they go after Kurapika’s gang, but still on the look-out for the Spider. Kill: Yes – and they won’t talk, but risk the reinforcements finding him. He can kill them all within sixty seconds, but if any of their men were smart enough to watch the scene from afar, then he will be seen. The fight took approximately ten minutes. Assuming one of them called for reinforcement going in, men will arrive in the next fifteen to twenty minutes. An amateur would rush to the scene in the next five minutes.

Rousing from his cost-benefit analysis, he moves from his crouch beneath the linen. It will take him five minutes to descend the building and walk toward the scene. He is betting on that amateur being an amateur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'M PROUD OF YOU LEORIO


End file.
